Power the Dark Lord Knows Not
by A Random Bowser
Summary: QLFC Round 11 what if the power was not love? What if it were something entirely different instead?


_**Prompt**_

 **Round 11** Open At The Close

 **CHASER 1:** (Potion) Cure for Boils

 **Characters/Pairing:** Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom

 **Prompts:**

6\. (dialogue) "On your marks get set…drink!"

7\. (occasion) Sorting ceremony

10\. (quote) 'Green is not a creative color.' – DHMIS

 **Word Count** (-AN): 2056, MSW

 **Note:** If it matters, I do not own Harry Potter in any form, except for the hardback copies of the books that sit on my shelf and they bring me no money. Be prepared for some veering away from canon and the characters becoming slightly ooc.

QLFC Round 11 what if the power was not love? What if it were something entirely different instead?

* * *

 _ **Power the Dark Lord Knows Not**_

Year upon year the Sorting Hat sits, gathering dust, upon a shelf in the Headmaster's office. Unable to share his knowledge with those in need of enlightenment except on September the 1 of every year, a date that was set when Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff completed the ritual to turn him from a mere hat to an animate, thinking, seeing, magical artifact. If only more people would place it on their heads, then maybe it would be able to share a portion of what it knows. Sadly, most are to self-servant and would rather not share their innermost thoughts, not even with a hat.

The Hat was also a bit of a hypocrite. For all of its own miserly ways, it still viewed the witches and wizards it sorted as ignorant sheep. In its mind, for it did have a mind—albeit one that was almost full of the knowledge of the past, had any one of them the common sense and self-confidence to ask it could have prevented many mistakes. It did, after all, see into the mind of every witch and wizard to pass through the halls of Hogwarts.

That the majority of the populace preferred to remain in ignorance confounded it.

Be it as it may, the Sorting Hat was enchanted with intelligence for a reason. It had a function to perform. At seven o'clock the hat woke up, a light probe picked up on the not so subtle patterns and waves that crashed and banged one against the other. It was time. A wide yawn and the hat lurched loudly into song. The Hat had the whole year to compose it after all.

The sorting was predictably boring for the most part. The muggle born was interesting, determined, maybe stout-hearted enough to make it in the house of lions, though the hat secretly hoped she would fail. The Hat never liked it when someone argued with him. The Longbottom was more promising, easy to way despite the fight he put up. Scared that one was, the lions would toughen the child up if they didn't chew him up and eat him first.

Now, though, now it was time for the child every other child had been thinking about. Harry Potter. Yes, the other minds had a lot to share about the boy, expectations, judgments, the Hat was curious about how right the children were about the so-called _Boy-Who-Lived_.

Apparently, everyone was wrong about the boy, even the boy himself. The potential was there, the power, the craftiness. He would fit in well with Slytherin. Unfortunately, his greatest ambition was to be normal, to be liked, to fit in. If he was a little more trusting, a touch more honest, he might have fit in with Hufflepuff, but no, the boy was right, sadly enough it seemed as though Gryffindor would be the best fit for him. Maybe the lions would bring out something special in the boy before they broke him, though the Hat wouldn't place a bet on that happening.

* * *

Neville wiped sweaty palms on the sides of his dark robes, hoping no one would notice as he followed the mixed crowd of Gryffindor and Slytherin students into the potion's classroom. So far every aspect of Hogwarts seemed large and intimidating. Professor Snape was no different. Neville wondered if it was too late to go home and have his grandmother hire tutors.

By the end of the opening lecture, Neville was certain that staying had been a mistake, no matter that the Hat had insisted he belonged in Gryffindor. He was thankful that his grandmother had the presence of mind to ensure that he at least had some tutoring as he moved to gather the necessary potion ingredients. His hands were shaking so hard as it was, Neville was afraid to contemplate how bad his nerves would have been if he was unable to recognize what he was searching for.

Neville squeaked as Malfoy bumped into him, everybody knew who the blonde was by the end of the first day, and as annoying and distasteful as Neville found the Slytherin there was no denying the jealousy that Malfoy inspired. With a sigh, Neville juggled the containers in his arms not noticing the extra bowl that somehow was slipped in among the others as he cautiously made his way back to the table he was sharing with a right fine chap named Seamus.

Neville exhaled softly and allowed his shoulders to slump slightly. So far the potion was managing. While the potion wasn't exactly the same color as what was described in the book, Neville was relieved that he hadn't exploded the potion or melted the caldron. According to the book either would be a disaster as any mistake made the Cure for Boils just as likely to cause boils as to cure them. Neville was feeling more confident having added the horned slugs without a nasty side effect and was equally distraught when he looked at his table to see too very similar bowls containing similar looking quills.

According to the recipe, there should only be one more ingredient needed. Neville glanced between the two bowls, wiping his hands on his robe as he debated. Behind him the potion in his caldron begin to pop, closing his eyes, the nervous boy grabbed two quills out of a random bowl and threw them into the cauldron, realizing seconds later that he forgot to take it off the heat first.

The damage had already been done and the resulting explosion was rather exciting, at least it was to those who were far enough away to not get splattered or recognized the danger signs and had ducked for cover. As for the Gryffindors, every single one of them at some point managed to stick some part of their skin into the potion, whether caught by the spray of the initial explosion or accidently getting into it as they rushed to help fallen classmates out of the now potion soaked floor.

* * *

Madam Pomfrey was at a loss. It was rare for so many students to be inside her wing of the castle at once, even for a potion's accident, it was even rarer for the students to come in with a problem that she could not solve. However, despite her best efforts, the boils caused by the wrongly made Boil Cure refused to go away.

Most of the students she had already released, and at this time only three remained as their cases were still too tender for her to feel comfortable insisting that the children return to classes. She would have to do so eventually, but for now, she would let the three boys rest a bit longer.

"I say, George, whatever caused you to feel the need to add Armadillo bile to that mixture. Green is not a creative color." Madam Pomfrey assumed that the speaker was Fred Weasley and hastened to pull the curtain closed around Harry Potter's bed. It wouldn't do for the twins to see what had happened and she didn't trust either of the troublemakers not to try to drain the boils for experimental purposes. Even though the twins were only third years the Madam had treated both of them often enough to know they were usually up to no good.

* * *

Fred and George slumped against each other as they stared down at the cauldron bubbling in front of them. It had taken a lot of pranking hours and the better part of the year, but the twins were sure that this time, their potion would work. This time, they had succeeded where both a healer and a potion master, not that they had any confidence in Snape's abilities in the first place, had failed. At last they, the wonderful Weasley twins had created a cure for the incurable boils.

"Now we just have to go and test it."

"Let's go find our subjects."

With matching grins, the two redheads were off, checking their parchment and searching out the names of their candidates. Seamus Finnigan and Neville Longbottom were the two easiest found and approached as the both of them were currently hiding in their room in Gryffindor tower.

"Well boys, we have finally done it!"

Neville and Seamus stared at the two redheads that were currently blocking the doorway, wishing there were other means of escape. When the two of them, along with Harry—who was somehow conveniently never around for testing, had agreed to let the twins try to find them a cure, they had been sure that Madam would find something before the two third years. Five horrid potions later and they were afraid that the twins were their only hope. A thought which scared them even more.

"Come on now, give it a go. If it doesn't work, then it shouldn't hurt you and the only way to know for sure is to try it." The other twin said as the two manically grinning red heads stepped further into the room and thrusts flasks of a neon pink potion into the hands of the two younger boys.

"What are you waiting for, a countdown?" Fred asked as the two younger boys stared at their flasks with dread.

"On your marks, get set…drink!" George offered enthusiastically.

With matching shrugs and grimaces Neville and Seamus tipped the flasks up and did their best to swallow it all in one go.

* * *

It took about a week for Harry to catch up with the twins and get a portion of the cure, mostly as he had decided to drain the boils before curing the; there was never any telling when acidic pus would come in handy and Hogwarts did little to inspire trust in one's well-being. The acidic nature of the pus within the boils had been discovered when George had gotten some of the ooze on his hand in the process of draining one of the boils, in order to better help with discovering the cure.

The pus had started to eat away rather rapidly at the skin of George's hand and had made a fairly sizeable hole before he managed to get to Madam Pomfrey and get it fixed. Why the Madam was able to heal a hole caused by acidic pus, not that she was informed of that part, and not cure him and his friends of their boils was a question Harry was determined to ask the Madam at some point before leaving for the summer.

* * *

Harry just wished the year was over already. The boils incident was finally beginning to die down, the jokes and teasing beginning to fade into memory, and now this. Harry let out an exasperated sigh and stared at the potion bottles while Hermione did her best to solve Snape's riddle. He fingered the small flask tucked into his pocket and swore that as soon as he was able he was going to pour the acidic pus down the slimy git's throat as payback for all the trouble that was being caused.

When Harry finally passed through the flames, he was surprised at the sight that greeted him. Professor Quirrel was not the expected target of his wrath. Still, Harry had already made up his mind on the path he was going to follow, so follow through he did. After waiting, and waiting, and waiting some more, because, for a guy with a stutter Quirrel really liked to talk. At long last, Harry had his chance, and without caring at all for the fact that he might get some of the flesh eating acid on his hands, Harry popped the top off the flask and dumped the contents down the Professor's throat.

In the end, watching as the puss worked its way through the troublesome professor's body was worth the disappointment of the Headmaster and the hole between his thumb and fingers on his right hand. "I really should get the recipe for the Cure for Boils from Neville," Harry thought with a grin as he lay back on the stiff white bed of the hospital wing, letting daydreams of what that puss could do to his less than pleasant relativities ease the pain of having skin, bone, and muscle regrown. It seemed as though, for Harry, this had indeed been a rather insightful year.


End file.
